


They're All That's Left You

by destinationtoast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Infidelity, John cheating with Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The news is terrible, and John seeks solace in an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're All That's Left You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2impostors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2impostors/gifts).



> Warning: this story has been aptly called an "angstbomb," which is pretty much what I was going for. 
> 
> I wrote this for the Winterlock ficlet exchange (the first draft was written on New Year's Eve, incidentally -- my last pre-S3 fic). Detectivelyd asked for "Angst. So much angst. Apart from straight up deathfic I’m fine with almost anything, particularly if it focuses on Sherlock." They also mentioned a desire for infidelity and pining. So I dialed up the angst to 11, then kept going. :)

“We always knew it would have to be this way.” Your blond-gray hair frames your raised eyebrows, pleading for understanding, and your apologetic half-smile. 

I stare wordlessly. Had we always known? Was I supposed to have known?

You sigh. “Well. Maybe you didn’t.”

* * *

In the beginning, we knew that she was very ill. You staggered into 221B after long absence, propped up on _chemotherapy, experimental treatments, non-negligible chance of remission_. But the weight of _recrudescence, metastasis,_ and _one-year survival rate_ knocked you down. You fell into my arms.

You sobbed on my shoulder while I realized I did not know how to be your friend. Not for this. Idiotic phrases like _I’m sorry_ and _you’ll feel better in time_ flitted through my brain, but I spared you their useless inanity. “I didn’t know she was a survivor,” I murmured mildly accusingly. It was the sort of thing I’d thought you might tell me when you started dating her, or in the years since. 

You just shook your head and cried harder. Not something you’d wanted to think about, then. You had ignored it, and perhaps she had as well; this was the first I’d heard of any hospital visits. Likely you both hid from it for so long that you’d damaged her chances at recovery. I kept my deductions to myself; even I knew enough about social niceties to tell they’d be unwelcome.

Instead I held you. I stroked your shoulders, neck, hair. And then I kissed you.

The kiss came more from my desperation to comfort you, to distract you, than any other place. But my desire of so many years soon seeped in. The kiss tasted of tears and longing.

I kissed you first -- but you kissed me second. Lunged into it, knocked me to the floor. Desperation, now on your part, to kiss, to unbutton, to stroke, to take. You did. I let you, gladly. 

I was surprised, at first, by your aggressiveness, your certainty. You had never been with other men (the lack of any evidence to the contrary was the sole reason for my years of repression), yet you never hesitated. But then, you always have been confident in every thing you’ve done, even when you’ve been shamming (at Baskerville, pulling rank; in the hospital for a case, pretending to be staff to gain access to patients’ records; at these moments, I wanted you even more). 

I grew less surprised, over time.

* * *

In the middle, we knew that the current circumstances could not last. The doctors shook their heads, and you were stoic and comforting at her side, then came to me for the same. 

One could monitor her health by plotting my mood. A perfect inverse. I grew lighter, happier, as it became more evident that this was not a one-time, two-time, five-time occurrence. You needed me more and more, stayed longer and more often. 

I made sure to be there for you, every time. I never visited her in the hospital. But neither did I take any cases that would require me to leave 221B (Lestrade had argued, but finally adapted; Molly had brought me lab supplies and autopsy reports with far more grace). Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft brought me food and other bare essentials. Mycroft brought copies of her charts from the hospital, as well, so that I never had to ask you to talk about it.

I -- the uncertain one, the inexperienced one -- grew more confident. I learned you. Learned exactly what you needed from me. What you liked, down to millimeter precision. How to distract you maximally from everything beyond 221B.

I thought about when you would be moving back in. We’d only be needing the one bedroom, this time. But perhaps we would not stay; not immediately. You would be a wreck, even more than you already were. Perhaps I would take you away from London for a while, while the wounds grew less raw. 

We could go anywhere; all the greatest cities of the world had great criminals. Perhaps I could convince you to write a book. Writing always made you happy. I would not even correct your romanticization of cases, for a while. Perhaps I even would find us a place in Sussex to settle down, away from everything that would remind you of her. Whatever you needed. Always.

* * *

In the end, everything we knew was wrong.

“She’s responding to the new treatment miraculously well,” you tell me. Your mouth lifts up with ease, your eyes joining the smile. Your very skin seems to shine brighter with happiness. I close my eyes to avoid seeing it.

I don’t know what to say. This. We never expected it. “I’m glad,” I lie, still seeking to provide comfort. You reward me for that by taking me to bed again, and I feel relief.

Then, after. “We can’t keep doing this, of course,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. I remain lying. “She needs me, now. She’ll be coming home soon.” 

Home. Your other home. Her home. I make some sort of noise, I don’t know what, and you look at me sadly. “I’m sorry,” you say gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Very sorry. But.” You swallow. “We always knew it would have to be this way.” 

I stare at you. Blink. You allow that maybe you were wrong, then lean in and kiss my forehead chastely. “I’m going to take a shower,” you say, for the last time.

It hits me like going through withdrawal from air. Like a dislocated heart. I can’t do this.

I know, then, what will be necessary to survive. While you wash all traces of me from your body, I think about what I will have to delete.

Not just the act itself. Even when we haven’t been having sex, the knowledge creeps into every look, colors every touch between us.

Not just your visits to 221B. Even without them, there’s the fact that I never left the flat, all the changes in my own behavior.

I will have to excise the whole of her illness, everything that you responded to. It’s the only way to be safe. As well, I shall have to delete the physical objects (your things, on the nightstand, in the bathroom -- you didn’t often stay over, but often enough); my browser history (cancer treatments and homosexual sex techniques; a rare combination, even for me); the unusual texts and emails from you, from Mycroft, from Molly, from Lestrade. The hair and skin particles, the toast crumbs and tea leaves, you’ve left behind; far too many for someone who rarely remembers to visit his old friend.

I will need a change for a while, to successfully pull this off. “I think I’m going away for a while,” I tell you, as you unwrap the towel from around you and cover your body in clothes.

You nod. You are sad, but don’t protest. “Ring us, when you get back. Please.” _Us_ has become you and her again.

You check your texts. “She’s awake. I have to go.” You lean in for one long, last kiss. My throat closes, and I don’t want it, but I can’t turn away.

Your eyes are wet as you pull back. “I envy you.” I think I must have misheard you. “It’s easy for you,” you continue. “You get to just delete this. You always painlessly slip back into being best mates. It’s never easy, for me.” You sound sorrowful, and the slightest bit accusing. 

_You always. I never._ What do you -- Oh! Oh. We’ve been here before. You knew all along it would be this way, after all. I sink back against the pillows, defeated by the inevitability of it. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” You lick your lips, then whisper, barely audible. “I love you, you know.” 

I do know. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to AxeMeAboutAxinomancy and Lisa E. for the excellent feedback, and for helping me to make the ending work right.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Scorched Earth Policy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271687) by [thepurplewombat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat)




End file.
